Page 57 of A November to Remember

The bedroom door flew open. Dawson stood on the threshold, chest heaving, his normally immaculate hair sticking up at a distressing angle.

“You look as though you have been chased by a ferret, Dawson.” Darcy turned from the mirror, the cravat still untied. “Or perhaps Miss Bingley’s maid cornered you in the passage again.”

Dawson clutched the doorframe, struggling for air. “Worse, sir. Boodles and Dickinson. Running.”

Darcy frowned. “Robert’s and Richard’s men? Running? I was unaware Dickinson moved faster than a brisk walk unless food for his master was involved.”

“The stables, sir.” Dawson took a gasping breath. “Lord Keathley and the colonel went riding. A boy. Little Mick. One of the stablehands’ sons. He climbed into the old hay loft. The floor gave way. He is trapped under a collapsed beam in the lower stalls.”

Darcy ripped the white linen from his neck and tossed it onto the bed. “And you stood there trying to catch your breath instead of telling me immediately?”

Dawson blinked, bewildered. “Sir, your cravat—”

Darcy shoved past his valet and ran.

The stable yard was a scene of pandemonium. Grooms ran in circles shouting conflicting instructions. Boodles, Robert’s impossibly refined valet, was covered in dust, pulling helplessly at a massive oak beam. Dickinson, stripped to his shirtsleeves, heaved against the wood with a loud grunt.

Darcy vaulted over a low fence and plunged into the wreckage of the lower stalls.

The old hay loft had partially caved in, bringing down a shower of splintered wood and straw. Beneath the heaviest crossbeam, trapped in a narrow gap between a trough and the floor, was a small, tear-streaked boy.

Darcy dropped to his knees in the dirt, ignoring the sharp crack of his breeches tearing at the seam. He shoved his face close to the gap.

“Mick, I presume.”

The boy sniffled, his eyes wide with fear. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, Mick, I must tell you.” Darcy wedged his hands under the beam, testing its weight. “This is a terrible place to hide. The lighting is dreadful, and the accommodation is practically non-existent.”

A tiny, startled giggle escaped the boy. “I wasn’t hiding, sir. I was looking for the barn cat.”

“Ah. The barn cat.” Darcy shifted his grip, motioning for Dickinson to join him on the left. “A notoriously elusive creature. Next time, I suggest bribing it with milk rather than bringing the roof down on your own head. Ready, Dickinson? On three.”

Darcy, Dickinson, and a groom strained against the wood. The beam did not move an inch, as it was wedged tight between the stone wall and the trough.

“It is too heavy.” Dawson arrived, ruining his trousers by kneeling down. He grabbed a piece of the wood. “We need a pulley system.”

“We do not have time to rig a pulley system. Bingley’s horses have bolted.” Darcy wiped a streak of sweat and dirt from his forehead. “The remaining roof structure is creaking.”

A shadow fell over the debris, and Darcy glanced up to see Miss Elizabeth standing at the edge of the ruined stall. She had evidently come to the stables especially to give Roc his morning treat, for she was holding an apple. Now, she was assessing the tangled mess of wood, stone, and men with remarkable calm.

“You cannot lift that by hand.” She pointed to the angle of the fallen wood. “It is wedged. You need to pull it clear of the trough.”

“We have tried, miss.” Boodles dusted his hands, heartbroken at the state of his fingernails. “We lack the traction and the horses.”

“You have fifteen hundred pounds of traction in the corner paddock.” She gestured at the far end of the yard. “Roc is still here. Use him.”

A collective gasp rippled through the gathered grooms.

“Miss Elizabeth.” Darcy stood up, wiping his hands on his breeches. “Roc is afraid of loud noises and tight spaces. If we bring him into this, he will panic. He might trample someone.”

“He will not.” She held his gaze. “You trust him. He trusts you. Tie a rope around the beam, attach it to his harness, and guide him yourself. Use a long rope. He need not enter the stall. He will pull it. I know he will.”

Darcy stared at her. The idea was madness. The horse was a menace on a good day. But the roof gave another ominous groan, and Mick let out a whimper.

“Dawson.” Darcy turned on his heel. “Fetch the heavy rigging. Dickinson, Boodles, clear a path through this rubbish.”

Two minutes later, Darcy led the black stallion into the yard. Roc’s ears were pinned back, his nostrils flared, white foam gathering at the bit. The horse side-stepped, his iron shoes clattering loudly against the cobblestones, distressed by the shouting and the smell of dust.